


His Last Paradise

by strawberrycheesecake



Series: Supermassive Black Hole [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Blood and Torture, Canonical Character Death, I'm Sorry, Knifeplay, M/M, Object Insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-24
Updated: 2014-08-24
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:29:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrycheesecake/pseuds/strawberrycheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Al Mualim decides to stop taking any chances with his best student when they are fighting to the death. He also decides to indulge in a longtime desire before creating paradise on Earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Last Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> I should stop spending time with a certain friend, we always bring out the darkness in each other's souls.  
> This was meant to be porn, pure and simple, but turned out to be ... this. I don't really know what this is. Nothing that makes sense, I suppose.

He was close now, Altaïr realized, Al Mualim was losing, one more maneuver of his sword and he would finish the old man, along with all his mad schemes and dreams of peace that was more horrible than war.

And it was at that precise moment when Al Mualim fended his attacks off with a particularly forceful blow, using that respite to take out the Piece of Eden and freeze Altaïr once again.

“The student would try to defeat the teacher,” he said. “Your luck runs out, Altaïr. I must cease this little game we play.”

Altaïr breathed in. “Do with me what you will.” He had lost, and there was no other choice but to accept his fate now. Perhaps Malik could finish the job – but it was better not to think of Malik. It was a shame, Altaïr reflected, that he and Malik would once again separate, this time permanently, just when they were reconciled.

Al Mualim looked at him, one eye clouded over, one eye intense, full of something Altaïr couldn’t yet comprehend. Alien emotions flickered across his face, gathering, disintegrating, finally settling into something ugly and menacing.

_So I am to die, then._

Al Mualim grabbed the front of Altaïr’s robes and threw him to the ground.

“So you will not do me the courtesy of allowing me to die on my feet,” Altaïr said. Al Mualim laughed.

“Die? No, my dear child, you are mistaken. I will not take your life.” He fiddled with the Piece of Eden, and laid it on the ground, not very far away from where Altaïr laid, still paralyzed.

“I thought you had more respect for your precious treasure than throwing it into the dust,” Altaïr remarked, while he was desperately wondering what Al Mualim had planned. He had said that he did not and could not make Altaïr into one of his thralls. What was he thinking now? Why claim that he was going to spare Altaïr his life?

“I have every respect for it,” Al Mualim replied calmly. “Nevertheless, for what I am about to do, it is slightly inconvenient to have it with me.” He stood over Altaïr, looked down at him, and, suddenly, with horror, Altaïr recognized his expression for what it was: lust.

“You cannot imagine…” the old man broke off. “Well, as I will create paradise on Earth, why not indulge in my own paradise for a while first?”

“You flatter me.”

Al Mualim did care for his forced indifference. He removed Altaïr’s weapons. He tore through his robes with his dagger, the sharp blade slicing through fabric as easily as it ended lives. Though that was actually an inadequate metaphor, Altaïr noted, his old teacher’s movements now lacked finesse, his hand shook and the blade bit into Altaïr’s skin more than once – but was all that really a surprise? Madness had obviously overtaken the old man.

Altaïr wanted desperately to send his hidden blade into his former teacher’s neck. The best he could manage was a small twitch, which probably only made Al Mualim think that he was flinching from the pain. And the hidden blade had been removed alongside his throwing knives, short blade, and sword. They clattered into a pile beside his body, within reach, ready to be his again, but he could not move.

He was not completely uncovered, but he felt the wind on his skin. Al Mualim kicked open his legs and lifted his hips, and his fingers pinched the insides of Altaïr’s thighs before they slid to a more private area. He put one finger in, his bony digits and calluses from handling weapons rubbing against Altaïr’s insides. He was far from gentle, adding another finger almost as soon as the first one was in. Altaïr bit his lips to keep himself from making any sound. The stretching was hurried. Al Mualim could hardly wait any longer, it seemed.

“You are mad,” Altaïr said despite himself. He wasn’t thinking about _begging_ the old man to stop, but he wanted him to have a piece of his mind, because who on earth could think about doing … _this_ at this time and place?

“Far from it,” Al Mualim replied. “I am only beginning to realize how satisfying it is to take something that you’ve always longed for.”

Without any lubrication, the whole thing turned slow and excruciating when Al Mualim finally got his cock out and pushed in. From the moment the head first made its pass through Altaïr’s entrance he knew that this would take eternity.

The intrusion darkened the skies. For a brief moment Altaïr could see nothing, could only feel the pain and violation as Al Mualim let out a great, trembling – almost desperate – gasp: he was all the way in. Then his vision cleared somewhat, and he saw the old man’s face right above him, and that particular sight caused him greater grief than anything else.

Al Mualim gave violent thrusts, rough and uncoordinated. His hands grasped Altaïr’s hips like a drowning man clinging to a log. Altaïr could not stay his tongue and said, not caring that his voice broke and shook through the agony, “It seems to me that your ‘paradise’ will end prematurely.”

“Yes, you would know, wouldn’t you,” Al Mualim exclaimed in a sudden burst of fury. “Your little games with Malik no doubt provided you with expert perspective on the matter. Did you think I was ignorant of it?” He adjusted his angle, and it seemed to give him pleasure as his pants grew heavier, even though it made no difference to Altaïr. In another two strokes, however, it was over. Al Mualim came, and Altaïr felt the immediate flaccidity keenly.

“What I do with Malik does not concern you,” said Altaïr, still breathing around the pain. “You are in no place to judge.” Then, because it pleased him better to be vicious and cutting, because it was easier to be arrogant and reckless: the Altaïr of old, he at least believed himself to be invincible, “But, to answer your first question: yes, I do know about these things. Also, for your information, Malik never finished so quickly.”

Al Mualim snarled, “I intend to put your mouth to better use, boy.”

Altaïr flashed him a smile that was all teeth and not really a smile at all. “I’ll bite.”

Despite his current circumstance – lying on the ground, paralyzed, debauched, dignity ripped to shreds – his threat was taken seriously. Al Mualim did not make true his intention, in fact, he seemed to be doing nothing. Altaïr tried to take a look at him from his current position, so as to better evaluate what he could do – which was nothing, really, but at least he could devise new taunts. He took a good look, a particularly good one (or not) came to mind.

Altaïr sneered, “Is old age catching up to you, _Master_?”

In response, Al Mualim slammed his head on the ground so hard that Altaïr thought he might have blacked out for a moment, when he became coherent of his surroundings once again Al Mualim was saying, “Are you that desperate to have something inside you? Well… I can do something about that.”

The old man’s hand reached towards Altaïr’s weapons, taking the short blade. He fiddled with it for a while, before he pointed it at the young assassin on the ground in front of him. For one brief moment Altaïr thought that Al Mualim was finally going to stab him ( _in the heart or in the neck? – it doesn’t matter_ ) and end all this, but when the blade came down it slammed down on his right shoulder.

“When you went out on your first mission,” Al Mualim said, almost with nostalgia, “an arrow struck you right here on this spot.” He pulled the blade out with one hand, twisting it around a little as he did so (Altaïr cried out and it seemed to please the old man immensely), and caressed the wound with the other, swirling his fingers around in the blood that gushed out. “But you were happy, because I praised you.”

“I once valued your opinion,” Altaïr said faintly, but the bitterness and anger was there, clear and unmistakable.

“What a pity,” Al Mualim mused, unaffected by Altaïr’s resentment. “You would have bled far less. Instead, you choose to be disobedient.” He traced one of Altaïr’s new wounds, one of the many he made when he cut away Altaïr’s clothes in his lust. He pressed the blade, and the wound – which had stopped bleeding then – was sliced open once again, this time deeper and longer.

Altaïr felt that his body was on fire, each wound throbbing and burning as Al Mualim made his progress. He hissed and groaned with pain sometimes, it couldn’t be helped, usually Altaïr could not fault himself for that. However, his cries seemed to do for Al Mualim what he wanted to do with his hasty rape, the same look was taking over the old man’s features, and disgust overwhelmed him.

Al Mualim grabbed his ass, blade in hand, and the pain down there flared up again. For a moment Altaïr thought some very horrific thoughts, but Al Mualim flipped the blade around and … the handle was all the way in, and out, and in, and out, and in. It was a mockery of pleasure consisted of pain and violation that left Altaïr dizzied by the surprise and _impossibility_ of this current scenario. It was difficult to even draw breath. He would be panicking, had the sentiment not been so alien to him.

Thoughts raced across his mind so quickly that everything was a blur and impossible to determine. Then he finally, finally _breathed._

Al Mualim mistook the gasp for air as something else. “Oh, you’re _enjoying_ this, are you?”

Altaïr roughly gathered up his thoughts and settled on the most inadvisable option. “It’s more enjoyable than your own performance, to be sure,” he said.

“Is that so?” Al Mualim pulled the handle out halfway again, left it there, and grabbed something else on the ground. It was something Altaïr was familiar with as well, the sheath of his sword. “This ought to satisfy you even more.”

People rarely accused Altaïr of having a sense of humor, mainly because he never smiled. The actual truth was that Altaïr could make connections between things, he wasn’t stupid, and he could see why people would laugh at a certain situation or story, but he was just never very good at giving appropriate reactions.

(“Your face seems to be stuck one way permanently,” Malik had said when they fucked for the first time. “I wonder if I could change that.” But now was neither the time nor place to think about Malik.)

And the current situation, with his former teacher, the mentor of his brotherhood, attacking him with his own weapons, which had once been all he had for security when people failed him and (more importantly) he failed people, seemed to Altaïr funnier than anything he had ever seen or heard. He would really have laughed, had not his face been resolute to stay the way it had stayed for so many years.

Having both the handle of the short blade and the sheath inside him was a thousand times worse than anything he could imagine. Neither was particularly smooth or round in shape, and their combined thickness was excruciating, to say the least. Altaïr was not averse to rough sex, and Malik was _well endowed_ , to put it modestly, but this was beyond anything they had ever done. He should not think about Malik anymore, he really shouldn’t.

(He had told Malik, “I’ll allow you to try.” But by then Malik had already succeeded.)

Altaïr glanced at Al Mualim’s face, and saw that the old man was even more overtaken by the madness – he had previously thought it impossible. He was not seeing Altaïr, but seemed lost in a fantasy that perhaps had everything to do and nothing to do with what was happening now. Causing Altaïr pain seemed to be his primary purpose, and he had lost his old calm and wise demeanor, not even his previous deluded self-righteousness remained. Only lust remained.

 “I wonder,” Al Mualim said as he explored a little with the tools at hand, pushing in harder one time, slower and softer the next, “could I find your sweet spot with this?”

“You surprise me, I thought you didn’t know that such a thing even existed,” Altaïr said. “You don’t know much about these things, from what I’ve seen so far.” He wasn’t sure if he was goading him so that he could lose control and miraculously provide an opening, or for him to lose his temper and kill him faster.

“Oh, I know,” Al Mualim replied. “I’ve seen you squirm and moan under Malik, saying ‘keep doing that.’ I was surprised at first, I never thought before then that you could say those kind of things.”

That caused Altaïr to forget everything for a moment, as disbelief and rage flooded him. “How dare you!”

“It was interesting to watch,” Al Mualim said. “I had a responsibility to oversee the actions of my best student, had I not? You really are quite devoted to Malik during those times. What a surprise that you should fail him in the Temple of Solomon and cause him to … I suppose one arm is sufficient for fucking. He had not lost the essential part. Of course, that is, if he could bear to touch you after his brother’s death.”

Altaïr could not find the words.

“Did I hurt you, my boy?” Al Mualim continued with the torture. “There are some interesting rumors pertaining to you, saying that you have been … _not very private_ with your private affairs. But there’s only been Malik, hasn’t there?”

“What rumors?” Altaïr asked, desperate to veer the discussion away from Malik.

“You’ve been sleeping with everyone, and everyone knows,” Al Mualim informed him. “Except you, of course.”

This information hurt Altaïr less than Al Mualim had obviously hoped. Altaïr cared little what others thought of him.

“Maybe I’ll make the rumor fact,” Al Mualim said. “I could call everyone here and let them do with you what they will. Will you like it as much as they say you did?”

He gave a particularly violent thrust. Altaïr cried out.

 

If someone were to ask Malik why he decided to leave his men at the doors and go in the garden alone, he would say that he thought it unwise to subject more people to Al Mualim’s influence. He undoubtedly had the Piece of Eden by his side. What if he turned it on their allies as well? But it was also something in the air, the atmosphere felt off – well, even more off than having a group of mindless thralls roaming around the place. Something murmuring, with all the impact of a scream, saying that it would be a bad idea to take a large party into the garden.

The moment he stepped into the garden, the search for Altaïr and Al Mualim was over. Because as soon as Malik turned his head to inspect the source of the bizarre lighting, he saw Altaïr, on the ground, covered in what appeared to be blood, and a black-robed figure besides him, drawing a cry from Altaïr’s lips as he fucked him with the handle of a short blade _and_ a scabbard.

Malik froze for a moment, for how long he could not say, in his mind it felt forever yet it could not have been very long, because when his sight cleared again _it was still happening_.

No one had become aware of his presence.

Malik knew that he had no time to spare. The Piece of Eden was on the ground, not far from Altaïr and the old (depraved, insane, sick) man, and even though Malik did not know how it worked he knew it was at the root of all this and he had to stop it.

He sprinted.

So Altaïr saw him, called out his name and “the Piece—” and Malik met his eyes for a fraction of a second to show that he already knew and he already understood.

Al Mualim saw him, tried to stop him, but a wild howl of “no” was the only thing that reached Malik in time. Malik kicked the ball away, making sure that Al Mualim would not get his hands on it soon, and certain that touching it would be a bad idea. Fortunately, his kick seemed to be sufficient to stop whatever it was doing to Altaïr, and Malik turned just in time to see Altaïr reach up and run a sword cleanly through the former Mentor of the Assassins.

“Altaïr!” Malik called as he rushed to his side. Altaïr had pushed off Al Mualim’s body, which had collapsed on top of him in death. He propped himself up by his left elbow – Malik saw so much _blood_ running down his right shoulder and dripping off his arm – and seemed to be debating within his mind whether he wanted to sit up. “Are you all right?” but he knew it was a feeble question once he asked, there could only be one answer—

“Yes,” Altaïr said through gritted teeth. “Help me up. We must destroy the Piece of Eden.”

“Your ‘yes’ and ‘help me up’ contradict each other,” Malik pointed out. “The fact that you are bleeding all over the place does you no favors either.” Part of him was shouting at himself to stop picking apart Altaïr’s words, this was neither the time nor the place, but the other part welcomed the old routine.

Altaïr looked at him, and Malik saw that he was trying very hard not to pass out. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

“Ah yes, what happened to redeeming yourself and changing your attitude?” Malik muttered. “I thought you decide to be less headstrong.”

“Al Mualim said that he cannot separate what I am with what I do, so you’ll need to accept me as I am,” Altaïr said, and for whatever unfathomable reason he seemed amused, the corners of his lips curled up minutely.

“That man…” Malik refrained from profanity, “he should have died long ago. May his soul burn in hell.”

“I trusted him,” Altaïr sighed.

“We all did.”

“He was very surprised to see you,” Altaïr said, still amused. It frightened Malik. There was some sort of instability about it.

“I only wish I came here sooner,” Malik spat. “Curse him. Curse Al Mualim.”

“But still,” Altaïr grabbed Malik’s hand, with some difficulty, due to his bleeding shoulder, “had he not used me to dispose of his competition, I would never have earned your forgiveness, even as you say you would not give me it. I would not be the man you say that does not need your forgiveness.”

In the end Malik was as reticent with his feelings as Altaïr, because in response he said, “We need to get your wounds treated.” And draped his cloak over Altaïr’s shoulders.

“I’m not going to _bleed_ to death,” Altaïr said, and what Malik had tried to push to the back of his mind in light of the situation burst into color and life and rage, but Altaïr was staring at him in a very matter-of-fact way, and Malik knew that he could not force the issue. The whole thing was horrible and wrong and currently he had no clue how to handle it, except to adhere to Altaïr’s wishes for now, and (more importantly) keeping him alive. And regardless of the state Altaïr was in, Malik had come in, ready to avenge his _death_ , and so he was relieved, relieved that _at least he was alive and they could still try to make things right_. In this way his anger and horror towards what Al Mualim had done was not as uncontrollable as it might have been. He helped Altaïr up. ( _If only I had both my arms, I could steady him better._ )

The way towards the now dormant Piece of Eden took some time. Altaïr could barely stand. At last they were there. “We will destroy this,” said Altaïr once again. He picked it up. He paused.

And suddenly before them was an image of … the world, Malik realized, _the world is round_. Except calling it an image was imprecise, it was unlike any picture Malik had ever seen.

It was a map, even though in all his years Malik could never even _dream_ of such a map.

“I … I can’t!” exclaimed Altaïr, strained.

“Who are you talking to?” Malik demanded, worry turning him from the wonder in front of him to the man leaning against him.

“Al Mualim,” Altaïr replied, “he tells me that I won’t destroy this.” He suddenly checked himself, and said almost defensively, “Before you think of _anything_ , I am not mad.” But he unconsciously leaned closer against Malik, something he would never have done were he conscious of it. “I can’t destroy this. We need to go. There is much to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that I should call Al Mualim "Rashid" or something else, since he's not really the mentor anymore, but... I actually have no explanation for this, please just bear with me.


End file.
